


our last promises

by ninemoons42



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst and Porn, Blow Jobs, Chocobros Road Trip, Established Relationship, Inspired by Fanart, Intercrural Sex, Introspection, Light Angst, Love at the end of the world, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Tent Sex, Wall Sex, World of Ruin, written for friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 07:57:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14076390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: Two nights in the life of Prompto Argentum and Ignis Scientia, and all the contrasts of their journey: everything is easy and light-hearted while you're on a road trip, until the road trip ends and the darkness falls and then nothing is easy.And in the nights, nothing is true except the promises they've already made to each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Art inspiration for the second chapter by grossularlilium: [click here (nsfw).](http://grossularlilium.tumblr.com/post/172171491677/older-promnis)

It starts like this: his mind finally, finally spinning free of the day’s worries, the day’s exertions. He can finally stop thinking about tomorrow’s breakfast and tomorrow’s logistics, and he can finally tip his head back onto the slouch and give of his camp chair, and take a look at the stars. Peaceful, peaceful, that deceptive and eerie quiet of the night, that only exists because they’ve been spending the previous nights clearing out waves upon waves of daemons, and had it not been for the potions they’d all be nothing but wrecks of their former selves by now -- and now he’s making himself worry again, and he clenches his hands into fists and tries to calm down, again -- 

Rustling, and a sleepy tousled mop of hair appears in his vision, the blond gone muted in the slivered moonlight, the faint cold distant gleam of the stars overhead. 

Bent over him, and Ignis knows there’s no one to observe, when he tries for a smile and only gets a small, almost amused huff in reply, and for a moment all he can see are freckles, are shadows ringing those eyes, and he loses himself in that vivid strange blue, as Prompto’s mouth brushes his and now, now, maybe now, he can feel that true quiet trickling gently into him.

“I do appreciate you,” he murmurs, and that earns him a blink, slow sleepy surprise.

“What?”

“Yes, that too,” he says, and then he watches as Prompto shakes his head. 

He really should stop teasing him so, but the bursts of light in his eyes, the lights of his emotions flashing past, are simply too captivating to resist.

And in any case he’s getting up and he’s following Prompto into the second tent -- it doesn’t look like quite an unnecessary expense, these days -- and as soon as he zips the flap mostly shut, as soon as he shrugs off his suit jacket and steps out of his shoes, there are hands on him, careful, deliberate.

“Talk to me,” Prompto is saying.

Their sleeping bags laid side by side: and Prompto is in the hair’s-breadth of space between them, knees drawn up and arms crossed so he can rest his chin on his wrists, and he looks like he’s nodding off again, and Ignis takes pity on him, and maneuvers him into lying down on (mostly) his own bedding. 

Arms around Prompto’s torso, not to cage him in, no, never. It would be a crime to shut him into a cage. It would be a crime to hold him back.

All Ignis can do is offer what he can of himself: the parts of him that aren’t bent and shackled by duty and by honor.

His thoughts are broken, again, when Prompto sneezes -- he never can sneeze quietly, and the sound echoes in the confines of the tent for a moment.

But what really catches his attention is the comment, afterwards: “Can hear you thinking from here.”

So he sighs and offers up his truths. “And so, again, please accept my thanks. You are, you are a necessary distraction to me. And that is not the best way of phrasing it, because that would imply that you are something I would cast away easily, should the need arise. Just -- please, will you believe me, when I say I appreciate what you do and who you are?”

“I don’t mind hearing it,” and now there’s a chuckle in the words.

“Vain,” and Ignis can’t help but laugh back, and press kisses into the wild fluff of Prompto’s hair.

Prompto’s sigh shivers gently through him, when he nips at the back of his neck, and -- it all turns on a coin, these days of understanding what it means to seize an opportunity when it’s presented, these days of making decisions right on the edge of the blade, right at the muzzle of a gun.

Still, he’s trying to do this properly: so he has to ask, but before he can get the words out, he’s beaten to the draw yet again.

“Maybe less talk and just, we sort of have this place to ourselves for a bit.”

“Which was the intention, when I maneuvered the others into the purchase in the first place. But I see your point,” and he does, and the next time he kisses Prompto, he applies his mouth and his tongue and his teeth with precision: and yes, he can still taste the day’s exertions on him, the faint traces of sweat and musk and fear and blood. 

The smell of Prompto, alive and shaking in his arms, as he nips at freckled skin and then soothes that bitten area with a kiss.

“Gods, you can stop doing that pretty much never.” The words are strangled and still mostly coherent.

He’s not here for Prompto being coherent.

So he pulls away a little, just long enough, just far enough, to strip down to his undershorts, and Prompto doesn’t even look at him to start doing the same.

Prompto’s pale skin -- isn’t so pale any more, not with the long days beneath the punishing sun. His freckles stand out on his skin anyway, like imaginary constellations, like the tantalizing hint of a message, and Ignis reaches for him again, eager now, wanting to feel out the shape of him.

Wanting to appreciate him, and show him how appreciated he is.

Now Prompto is flat on his back, almost naked, flushed and wide-eyed and smiling -- beckoning, and Ignis will no longer deny himself this one person he’s found, or who has found him, and he reaches for Prompto, and murmurs against the convulsive movement of his throat: “I wish I could hear you. I wish we were somewhere safe. Somewhere you could shout the very skies down.”

“Either you’re getting too proud of yourself or you really, really want me,” is the teasing response, and so Ignis laughs and bites none-too-gently at his collar bone, and that gets him a groan that mostly rumbles through his skin and leaves him wanting, leaves him needing. All thoughts banished from his head, all except the drive that pushes him onward, eager for the taste and the feel of Prompto, eager for him -- here, where they’re slowly tangling together, arms and legs and the silent build of delirium -- 

Words spilling in harsh whispers from Prompto’s mouth, a stuttered parade of obscenities, as Ignis takes his time, mapping out the shape of him, mapping out the tremble in his muscles: and there’s no night long enough for Ignis to know where all his freckles are, but he knows a few, by now. The nearly-straight line marching down his right flank. The spiral-armed cluster to the left of his navel. The tiny, almost-perfect flower-shape at the base of his left hand, five ragged petals.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he hears Prompto whisper, words gone ragged.

So he teases, “Am I succeeding?” And he doesn’t give him the chance to answer: he reaches into Prompto’s underwear, freeing him, the hard and hot shape of him. Stroke, up and down, firm grip that leaves Prompto shaking and silent, wide-eyed in shock and need -- and then he takes pity on Prompto, and licks his lips, and leans in.

Hiss of his name, that rings in Ignis’s ears, as he goes carefully down on Prompto: the weight and the heft of Prompto’s cock on his tongue, in his mouth. He appreciates the pulse and the throb of him, the bitter taste of pre-come. Sensitive spot just beneath the head, that he teases with just the tip of his tongue, before he licks a broad wet stripe and keeps going -- breath, breath, and then he can take Prompto in, all the way.

Ignis can still vividly remember the first time he’d deep-throated Prompto: the echoes of his hoarse shouting, the flush in the skin of his inner thighs.

The flush he can see in the here and now, as he swallows and catches his breath and starts to move, up to almost pull all the way off, and then back down, measured pace. He likes drawing this out. He likes taking his time. And, again, appreciating: and those are Prompto’s hands at the back of his head, hard grip, but never truly painful. Just enough that he’ll be feeling it for a while, and that’s what he wants, that’s what he appreciates too: blunt nails raking across his scalp, and the breathless whisper of his name.

“Ignis, please.”

Oh, he sounds completely broken now: and Ignis pulls off, meets Prompto’s eyes, sees the wreck of him.

Smiles, and says, “On your side, please?”

“Fuck, yeah,” and Prompto’s unsteady as he moves: and Ignis joins him, his back against Ignis’s chest once again, and this time Ignis muffles his grateful groan in Prompto’s hair as he frees himself.

“Let me,” is all he has to say, and Prompto’s already moving, he already knows what to do. Bend and slight part of his knees, just enough so Ignis can get his cock between those beautiful legs.

He hooks his ankle over Prompto’s uppermost foot, gets his arms back around Prompto’s shoulders and waist, and then he takes Prompto’s cock back in hand, and kisses him. “All right?”

“Better than all right, move now please?” Frantic whisper and the words gone low with need.

Ignis doesn’t need to be told twice.

Thrust, and the movement of his hand -- he starts out intending to keep some kind of steady rhythm, timed to the beat of Prompto’s own heart -- but this whole thing has been spiraling out of his control nearly from the moment he came into the tent -- and losing control, losing focus, was the point of the exercise anyway -- an escape from all the things bearing him, and bearing Prompto, down in their mired aching fears -- 

So he shakes himself apart, and helps Prompto fall to pieces: they’re anchored helplessly in their senses, in their bodies moving together -- 

“Love you love you love you,” is how he knows Prompto’s close, too close.

“Love,” is his response, as Prompto gasps and comes.

He follows, kissing Prompto’s shoulder as he rides out the aftershocks.

And -- they’ve got to get back to their rational selves, they’ve got to get back to the grind of the days and the nights. They’ve got to get back to their duties, to their vows. 

He knows that, but he banishes that knowledge to the back of his mind and clings quietly to Prompto -- who turns around in his arms, who kisses him, and all the while he smiles with that lopsided gentleness, that sweet resignation. 

“Thank you. Thank you. For so much more than just this.” 

“Yeah. For so much more. You’ve got me, too, Ignis. Think of that, okay?”

“I will. I do.”


	2. Chapter 2

The night is long and painful and there is nothing restful about it, nothing silent about it -- and all the while Prompto’s tossing and turning on the threadbare mattresses, on the pieced patched blankets, and he wishes he could block out the glare of the floodlights, the howling cries of everything lurking in the shadows.

And he’s lost count, again: lost count of how many hours he’s been awake and forcing himself to stay awake in order to stay alive -- and that not even for his own sake. He’s got to stay awake because if he falls asleep, if he lets his guard down, the shadows full of teeth and ravening hatred and claws will come roaring out of the night, will find the weak spots in the makeshift walls, will come in and tear him to pieces. Tear all the others to pieces, the scattered refugees he’s been laboring to lead to safety, and so their safety is his personal duty, his private vow. 

But if he doesn’t sleep he’ll -- he’ll lose his mind. He’s already seen it happen in one or two of the people in this place: this is the last place where the lights burn hour after hour and some people just don’t have the knack of sleeping in ghost-bright places, and when they finally passed their breaking points those people just -- wandered away into the night and could not be reasoned with, could not be brought back or coaxed back or even coerced back, and in the here and now he gets up and claps his hands over his mouth, and maybe it’s a good thing he’s not eating, either, because his gut churns and heaves and he doesn’t have anything to bring up --

He shakes and he doesn’t cry out, not here, not now -- only to bolt up silent and staring and shocked when the door into his quarters opens, and there’s a long lean shadow, scarred and unsure, standing there, framed in the jamb, in the indoor glare of light-reflections.

Tilt of that head. Twist of that mouth. 

“Prompto.” 

And it’s Ignis, it has to be him, it can’t be anyone else, because that voice is the voice that Prompto thinks of when he needs to get a fucking hold of himself, when he needs to hold on to his reason with desperate hands, and it’s that voice that’s reaching out to him in the here and now, low and compelling and calming.

Swift movements, still partly in silhouette: Ignis is pulling off his jacket, his boots, his heavily-tinted visor, and the scars of him are revealed, and he forces himself up to his feet and responds, when Ignis holds a hand out to him.

He’s not wearing much, not in the here and now, and he sucks in a startled breath when he approaches Ignis and those warm questing fingertips go straight for his chest, for the thundering beat of his wary weary heart. 

“How long?” 

Prompto clenches his hands into fists. “I don’t know.”

Sharp quiet sound of disapproval, in response. “You should have taken the pills that we found.”

“I was afraid of what would happen if I never woke up,” he says, completely honest because that’s the foundation of them, that’s the promise he made Ignis, without ever saying it out loud. A promise of total and absolute truth. All the truths he’s got that he’s held to himself, that he’s held in his heart, all the truths he could bear and all of the truths he couldn’t -- Ignis is the keeper of all of those things. He made that promise a long time ago; there’s no point in going back on it now, now that they’re living in the terrible lies and the terrible shadows of the long, long night. 

Now that truths are the only thing Ignis can really see.

Ignis is calling his name again, more softly this time, and he’s coming closer and closer and the kiss is -- not gentle. Not sweet. A kiss with sharp edges, a kiss that hangs on, a kiss that means fighting for their lives. Fighting for their hearts.

Prompto seizes Ignis by the shoulders and gives in to that kiss, throws himself into it, and all he wants is to drown in Ignis, is to drown in this last true thing they’ve got left -- 

He doesn’t even register the impact when Ignis backs him into the corner of the room. Two steps and the jarring in his nerves -- that doesn’t matter. All he wants is to let Ignis in, past all his fears, past all his nightmares: he groans, wordlessly, and tips his head back and Ignis is mouthing at his neck, still rough and still demanding, and what else does he have to give, in this broken world, in this mourning world? What else is left of him?

“I need to hear you,” Ignis all but growls, and the words are followed by teeth, closing in the skin of Prompto’s shoulder. 

He cries out and presses their bodies roughly together: this is his offering, this is all he’s still got, that’s still here. His scars, his torn heart, his fearful sobs. The need that lives in brambles and thorns in his skin, the need to affirm that he’s alive and that he’s not the only one still alive -- 

Ignis’s hands yanking his clothes away -- his layers of shirts, his ragged shorts.

He pulls the band encircling his wrist away, and drops that into Ignis’s questing hand -- and then Ignis is going still and poised where there are only a scant few inches of space between them. “Prompto.”

“If I don’t do it now, I’ll never do it, I’ll lose my nerve completely, and I’ll never do it,” he babbles out, quietly. “Not that you don’t know what I was hiding. Not that you don’t know why I was hiding what I was hiding. You know this, you know who I am, underneath it all, and -- and, somehow you’re still here.”

“Because I choose to be here.”

Six words, six quiet words.

He looks up, at the calm lines in Ignis’s face. Even his scars seem to radiate that timelessness, that strange kind of safety. Calm like weapons and armor and, and all that’s gone now, like security, like surety, like home.

“Do you choose to be here?” Ignis goes on, and it’s as if he knows that Prompto’s been looking at him. “Do you choose to be where I am? If you want to make a different choice, if you have made a different choice, I only ask that you tell me. I do not even want to know what that choice was -- ”

“Ignis,” he says, quietly, and he hauls him down and kisses him again.

Still he feels the tears in his eyes, but it’s not the tears that burn him now. Not the tears that make him think of white-hot flares in his heart, like his feelings collapsing, burning anew to become the great fierce core of a star. 

Ignis, Ignis, it’s been Ignis all along: the last source of warmth and light in this world.

Prompto kisses him, desperately. Feels out the shape of him, real and here.

“I can still make a new choice,” he says, when Ignis pulls away to catch his breath, harsh rasp of their mingled breaths. “As long as I’m alive I can still make a choice, and you, Ignis: that choice is you. I don’t want any other choices. I don’t have any other choices to make. And, hah,” he laughs, a little in relief and a little in pain, “any other choice there is in this world, doesn’t compare to you. Last choice. Last chance. That’s you.”

“Love,” is the response, quiet and stunned, and it’s been years since Prompto’s heard that word, it feels like.

And so he says, “Love you. Just you. Love you Ignis.”

Those arms wrapped around him, crushing him close: he doesn’t care about the bruises, he doesn’t care about the salt of their mingling tears, he doesn’t care about anything else but this, the last walls gone, the last doors opened.

Kiss to Ignis’s lips and then: he deliberately lets himself fall back against the wall, open, empty, needing.

“I’m, Ignis, I don’t know how to ask for it but, but -- have me. Have me.”

“Yes.”

Everything happens in the blink of an eye. Everything happens in the breathless slow snapshot moments. Hand on his hip, pulling him close, and Prompto hooks his leg around Ignis’s, chests and bellies and cocks flush against each other, and he hangs on, arms around Ignis’s neck and crying out his name, softer and softer as the need builds and builds, sharp edges tearing him open and he wants it, he wants it, he wants to be lost in it and -- 

Ignis is touching him so, so intimately: and that’s not without its measure of pain. How long, how long has it been since they’d had this, this time to let the world fall away, this time for just the two of them where they can banish each other’s shadows, each other’s darkness, like light to each set of faltering steps, like light on their paralleling roads -- 

He grits his teeth and rocks into the intrusion, rocks into Ignis’s fingers prying into him -- gently, carefully, nothing but spit and sweat to ease the way -- he thinks past the pain, thinks past the sparks of discomfort -- and it all melts away and now he’s moving more urgently, now he’s urging Ignis on --

“You’re so good, you’re so good,” and Ignis fucks him with his fingers, slow and steady and, and nothing to get him over the edge -- fucks him just enough to leave him breathless and wordless and lost, spinning perilously.

Now Ignis is unwinding one of his arms from around his neck: Ignis is licking hot and hard at his hand, and Prompto stares at Ignis’s mouth, Ignis’s tongue, stroking over his skin, leaving him damp and shaking and he knows what he needs to do, knows it and wants it and needs it, and he spits into his own wet hand as well, when Ignis lets him up.

Down between them, scant hair’s-breadth spaces, and he revels in the hiss that escapes Ignis when he carefully grasps his cock. Hard for him, wet at the tip already, and Prompto desperately wants to go down on him and -- he doesn’t, he can’t, not with all his nerves screaming to be filled up, screaming to be taken -- 

This isn’t new. They’ve done this before. But the old memories that live in his skin and in his flesh fall away: they’re wiped out, and he strains up onto his toes and nearly collapses anyway, as Ignis enters him, slow and deliberate and steady -- sweetly punishing pace, gorgeous lines in that dear face, and Prompto hears himself gasp encouragement and press closer, closer, closer -- 

The tears that fall onto his skin aren’t his: and he hides the smile in Ignis’s sweat-soaked hair, and asks, “All right?”

“How could I have almost forgotten this?” is the response, a question like a hammer-blow. “How could I have survived, going without this?”

“Then do it, do it, please,” Prompto says after he’s done shaking all over. The words have torn him to pieces. The emotions in Ignis’s words would have left him shaking on the ground, were he not pinned here, held up here, and now Ignis is holding his shoulders fast to the wall, and he hisses, “Please!”

Whisper of his name.

And Ignis moves, and the first thrust wrenches a scream from his throat and he muffles it desperately in Ignis’s shoulder. 

Ignis moves and he’s moved by Ignis, locked together, straining together -- he’s nothing but the want that storms down his nerves, that blanks out every part of his mind -- he thinks Ignis might be feeling something similar, with the way he growls, with the way he breathes, nothing rational left in the sounds of him, nothing but the need, nothing but this feeling, nothing but them -- 

“Can you still come untouched?”

“Fuck, Ignis,” is all he can think to say.

“I, I will, Prompto -- ”

Harder, harder, crashing impact of each thrust and each gasp and each hiss and Prompto unravels for him, laughing as the world drops out and all he knows is Ignis, Ignis, Ignis -- and he falls headlong into his climax, and only dimly hears Ignis’s gratified cry, following his in rapid succession.

“Don’t go,” he says, when he comes back to his senses and finds himself sprawled out in the corner, Ignis’s weight pressing him down and anchoring him, the last safe harbor in the night-ravaged world. “Don’t leave me.”

“I’ve no wish to destroy myself. Not any more. Here I stay with you. If you’ll have me.”

“Always.”

And maybe that’s enough of a promise to be going on with.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on Tumblr at my FFXV sideblog [@ninemoons42-lestallumhaven](http://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/) or at my main [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
